


My Happy Place

by MagicFish



Series: I Don't Know (The Same Things You Don't Know) [1]
Category: Corner Gas
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-13
Updated: 2013-09-13
Packaged: 2017-12-26 10:56:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/965127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagicFish/pseuds/MagicFish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hank's place is being fumigated and Brent's drawn the short straw.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Hank's place is being fumigated and Brent's drawn the short straw, which is why Brent wakes up one morning to the rude glare of sunlight reflecting off his coffee table and finds that he has an armful of Hank Yarbo. Brent’s not that surprised. He remembers Hank letting himself into the house while Brent was watching TV. He’d sat down close to Brent on the couch, well within the range of Brent’s lazily outstretched arm, oblivious to their intimate proximity in his single-minded quest for the popcorn in Brent’s lap. The night had worn on. Kickboxing had given way to cheesy reruns and then to half-hour commercials for knives, and somewhere along the line, they had fallen asleep.

Back in the present, Brent looks down at Hank, fast asleep with his arms wrapped securely around Brent’s midsection. Sometime in the night, Brent’s arm has found its way off the back of the couch to curl around Hank’s shoulders protectively. Hank’s hat has fallen off, and his hair tickles under Brent’s chin. There’s something vulnerable about him in this moment, something that begs to be protected and kept close and safe against the evils of the world. Something unlabeled stirs in Brent’s heart, and something more easily understood stirs in his tightening jeans.

“Wake up there, sunshine,” Brent calls out more gently than he’d intended. “C’mon, Hank. I need to get to work.”

Hank looks up at him blearily, yawns, and then with classic Hank Yarbo nonchalance, slides off of the couch to prepare for a day at Corner Gas.


	2. Chapter 2

The thing that surprises Brent most, ultimately, is that he isn’t surprised when he wakes up the same way the next day. And the next. By the time the palatable programming has run out on the fourth night of Hank’s stay, Brent is sore enough that he takes action. Stretching, he stands up and says, almost without thinking, “Let’s go to bed.”

Hank’s “Hm?” is sleepy and confused.

“Look, if we sleep on the couch again, I’m gonna be pumping gas in a neck brace tomorrow,” Brent complains. “Come on.”

They don’t discuss it any more than that. There’s nothing to discuss, really; just a pair of friends who have been finding it comfortable and convenient not to sleep alone. It’s like they’re kids again, sleeping over at each other’s house. Each goes through his respective bedtime routine separately, and Brent’s already under the covers by the time Hank crawls in between his friend and the wall and immediately falls asleep.

Of course, when Brent wakes up, they’re together again. Hank’s head is tucked to Brent’s chest, and his hand rests lightly on Brent’s side, as if sometime in the night he’d felt the need to be sure his friend was there.

Every other day, they’ve woken up together out of necessity, Brent ordering Hank off him so he could go to work. Today, Brent takes advantage of the looser confines of the bed and lets Hank sleep. The handyman rolls up to the gas station around noon, looking surprisingly well-rested and flashing a warm and thankful smile at Brent over lunch. This is the extent of their communication on the subject. After all, their silence agrees, nothing is happening.


	3. Chapter 3

The fifth night, it all seems so natural. The game ends, Brent stands up, and together the two friends prepare wordlessly for bed. They lie down and pull up the covers, and Brent is almost sure that Hank is asleep when his voice creeps timidly through the darkness.

“Hey, Brent?” Brent stops himself thinking about why his breath is caught in his chest.

“Yeah?” he replies, his tone of voice almost normal.

“Is this alright?”

It’s a question with almost no meaning behind it, but Brent thinks he understands.

“Yeah,” he says. He lays a reassuring hand on Hank’s hip and absentmindedly strokes a circle over the covers with his thumb. He doesn’t expect Hank to sigh gently and arch ever so slightly forward at the contact, murmuring, “Aw, that feels good.”

Brent presses more firmly, and Hank arches further toward him in response. Trapped between them, Hank’s hands clutch tentatively at the front of Brent’s t-shirt, and his breath is warm and wet against Brent’s neck. Empowered by Hank’s response, Brent presses his hand against Hank’s hip, leveraging him down onto his back, and shifts to hover over him. Face to face, their eyes meet, communicating a mutual lack of understanding before their lips meet haltingly and Brent slides his hand under Hank’s shirt to caress his side.

Hank’s hands are suddenly between them, lower, and Brent hangs his head to watch his friend slide eager fingers under Brent’s waistband to free his cock. Brent kicks off his boxers, and pulls Hank’s off as well when Hank obligingly lifts his hips with a gasping moan.

It’s Hank’s natural bravado, Brent figures, that makes him spit into his hand and grasp them both as if he’d been waiting for this opportunity, but any ability to analyze the situation soon leaves him as his hand joins Hank’s and they thrust languorously together in a rhythm older than Dog River.

Hank is louder than Brent had expected, not that he’d ever given this scenario much thought. As their movements gain speed, Hank throws his head back onto the pillow, exposing a neck that Brent can’t help but suck at, and lets out a series of “Yes”s and “Aw, Brent”s that seem to well up from his very core.

Then Brent sucks hard, and Hank’s legs tighten where they’re twined with his friend’s and Brent feels the warm flow of cum trailing over his hand. Letting go of Hank’s softening cock, Brent gives himself a few firm strokes and spurts over Hank’s belly with a grunt. He lies down next to his friend and grabs a wad of tissues from the bedside table while he’s still catching his breath. Hank accepts them drowsily, and is already listing off to sleep as he reaches over Brent to throw them away.

When Brent wakes, they’re entwined again. The light of the still morning filters in through a gap in the curtains, illuminating dancing dust motes and striping across Hank’s arm, which is tucked securely around Brent’s waist. Brent kisses the dark curls pressed under his chin while he can get away with it.

“Hey, sunshine,” he says, and is relieved to find that his voice still holds the measure of sarcasm that filled it five days earlier. Hank barely opens his eyes and is probably still mostly asleep when he murmurs “Morning” and tilts his head to brush his lips against Brent’s.

Brent takes it in stride. This progression, he decides, feels comfortable enough, and he can’t bring himself to think about anything that could disturb his early morning peace.

“I’m gonna head to work,” he says instead, sliding gently from Hank’s arms. “You should think about taking a shower; you’re a little crusty.”

Hank looks down. “Aw yeah, good idea,” he agrees. “I’ll see ya at the coffee shop?”

“Yep, see ya there,” Brent grins, and another day begins.


End file.
